CARRY ON | SPN

3. That Night

"Phoebe, get up."

A firm shake on her shoulders. A cold, hard voice. A warning in the tone.

The young girl slowly allowed her eyelids to flutter open, blinking sleep from them as she did so, "Dad?" She asked softly, waiting for her pupils to adjust to the darkness of the room.

"Get up." John repeated, releasing his hand from her shoulder and taking a step back from the couch, where she must have fallen asleep.

Her knees were pulled up to her chest and her head had been lying uncomfortably against the arm rest. The last thing she remembered was feeling cold, lonely, and afraid.

Though she had to squint slightly as she sat up, she was able to faintly make out the silhouette of her father rifling through the cabinets hanging above the counter of the motel of whatever town they were in now.

"Dad? What's going on?" Her voice portrayed the exhaust she still clearly felt, yet to lift her body from the couch cushions.

No response was given to her as she watched John throw random food into a bag he had slung over his shoulder. Only when he finally turned around was she able to catch a glimpse of his face.

It was hard and emotionless, not giving away even a little hint of what was going on.

Besides the two of them, Phoebe couldn't help but realize with a sinking heart that the rest of the room was empty as well. No Dean. No Sam.

Not after the screaming. Not after the tears. Not after the doors slamming.

"Get up." Her father once again repeated before striding to the door without so much of a glance backwards to see if she would obey. He knew she would.

As quickly as she could, the young girl scrambled up and followed in John's wake, softly shutting the motel door behind her and holding back a shutter to the sudden and cool air that she was met with outside.

She was still in the short sleeved shirt that she had fallen asleep in from earlier that day- it now being well enough into the night for it to be pitch black out-  and was now paying the price with the brisk air.

Not a complaint fell from her lips, though, as she silently followed him to the car, opting to slide into the backseat as opposed to the front when he dropped into the driver's side. She knew enough to know not to try and sit in the front with him when he was in a bad mood.

Which was more often than not.

Still yet to speak, she tried to sink as far back into the seat as she could- doing everything in her power to make herself as small as possible.

It seemed as though waves of anger and annoyance were rolling off of John, sitting heavily in the atmosphere in a suffocating manner that made it hard for the young girl to breathe.

A few minutes into the unknown drive, her caught onto something sitting on the normally empty seat beside her.

Her bag. The one she packed all of her things into every time they moved for a new hunt. And it looked full.

"Dad, where are we going?"

As soon as the question slipped quietly past her lips, she knew she had made a mistake.

John's hands tightened around the steering wheel and his already tense back went even more rigid. His icy eyes shot to the rear view mirror, Phoebe dropping her head as soon as their gazes locked.

Where were they going? Why was her bag packed? Where were Sam and Dean?

The eleven year old wanted nothing more in that moment than to have her brothers with her.